


alpha centauri

by hyruling



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Domestic Fluff, First Kiss, M/M, Pining, Running Away, Six Thousand Year Slowburn, Slow Burn, and then an extra 130 years for good measure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-11-26 11:20:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20929364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hyruling/pseuds/hyruling
Summary: “There isn’t time, angel!” Crowley snaps. “Will you come with me? Yes or no?”Aziraphale clenches his jaw, and Crowley is sure he’s lost him. But unexpectedly, his expression hardens. He looks determined when he focuses back on Crowley.“Yes.”





	alpha centauri

**Author's Note:**

> reposted for all of the lovely people who told me they missed it, with some edits. this is for you <3

Pisa

1348

* * *

“Well now, that doesn’t suit you at all, angel.” 

The long beak of his mask obscures his face, but Crowley would recognize Aziraphale’s tightly wound shoulders and perfect posture anywhere. Aziraphale stands, abandoning the poor soul moaning on the makeshift cot and shuffles slowly towards Crowley, taking care to avoid stepping on the other diseased bodies around him. The stench of death is in the air, so thick that even Crowley is near to choking on it. 

“What are you doing here?” Aziraphale whispers when he reaches Crowley. No greeting or pleasantries, though perhaps he should have expected that. Aziraphale had been rather upset with him after all that nasty business with the Knights Templar. 

Crowley doesn’t answer, nodding to the ghastly mask covering his face, the very same one he claimed a little credit for. He was merely a creative influence for the design, yet the humans still managed to make it look ridiculous. The beak in particular had looked better in his head, more menacing, but it doesn’t feel like a total loss as he sees Aziraphale’s innocent, fretful eyes peek through. 

“Crowley. This is bad,” Aziraphale hisses, fumbling to remove the mask. “I mean, it’s... just _awful_. Look around.” 

He gestures to the scene around them, as if Crowley hadn’t noticed the mass of miserable humans surrounding them. He looks anyway, taking in the hideous black and bulging skin, the moans and screams, the ominous figures in the black robes and beaked masks hovering over them, as if any of them have a hope in Heaven of actually easing their pain. The sight reminds him too much of home… his old home, the place he hasn’t seen in centuries, the place he hasn’t actually considered home since Eden.

“Did you --” Aziraphale looks around, lowers his voice. “Did your lot have anything to do with this?” he asks, predictably. Crowley wrenches his eyes away from the despair around him and focuses back on Aziraphale. 

“‘Course not. Haven’t you heard?” Crowley answers, slipping in just enough arrogance to seem unaffected. “Word ‘round the planet is that this is another of The Almighty’s punishments. You know, Noah and the great boat, and all that.” 

“This isn’t God,” Aziraphale counters, horrified. “God wouldn’t -- She _ wouldn’t _ inflict this... unspeakable manner of suffering on Her own creation. No, this is the work of your department, I’m sure of it.” 

“Oh really? Then tell me, how do your friends upstairs feel about your little healing miracles, hm?” 

Aziraphale shifts, looking impossibly more ridiculous, with his perfectly coiffed white hair and filthy oversized robes. He clutches the mask to his chest uneasily and shifts his weight from foot to foot. Black really doesn’t suit him. 

“Well… they, well… they don’t exactly know,” Aziraphale admits. “But -- I believe they’d approve, or I hope they… at the rate this is spreading, I couldn’t possibly heal enough people to make a real difference, anyway.” 

“Right,” Crowley drawls. He smirks as Aziraphale worries the hem of his sleeve. “Well, far be it from me to interfere in your deception -- “

“It’s not _deception_,” Aziraphale argues. “I’m an angel, Crowley, I can’t just sit by idly while people suffer this way. They -- they’d understand.” 

As if to prove his point, he kneels to a woman near their feet. She’s thrashing in her sleep, pathetic little cries spilling from her throat unconsciously. Aziraphale touches her neck where the tumors are worst, gently and fearlessly, shushing her as he works. Slowly, she eases; the diseased skin changes before his eyes, black fading to grey, to white, to pink. The woman’s body relaxes, and she releases a long breath, falling into an easy sleep. Aziraphale smiles softly down at her. Watching him, Crowley abruptly remembers why he hasn’t sought him out in nearly two hundred years. 

He clears his throat, adjusts his robes. “I’m sure you’re right. But it won’t matter for much longer anyway, I’m afraid.” 

Aziraphale snaps his head up, looking alarmed. “What on earth are you talking about?” 

Crowley shakes his head. “Come on. Let’s talk somewhere else, I can’t take the smell much longer.” 

His wings stretch, and he’s miles away in moments, on a hilltop overlooking the city. He takes a deep breath, clearing the smell of rotting flesh from his nostrils. Aziraphale joins him a minute later. His wings are still outstretched, the brilliant white juxtaposed against the ominous black of his robes. 

“That’s off, innit?” Crowley wonders idly, pointing to the tower in the center of town that’s nearly completed. 

Aziraphale glances over his shoulder, and looks a little sheepish when he turns back around. “Yes well… turns out, architecture isn’t really my strong suit.” 

“_You _ did that?” 

Angels don’t blush often, what with their impeccable control of their cardiovascular systems, but Aziraphale manages it more often than any angel he’s ever known. He rubs his neck absently and there’s a hint of color staining his cheeks if Crowley squints. 

“It was really more of a problem of… soft soil. I’ve tried to fix it, truly, but it was a bit too late before anyone noticed, and it’s _ stubborn _ and -- oh, never mind!” He throws his hands up in frustration. “Crowley, what do you mean ‘it won’t matter for much longer’?”

Crowley sighs, giving the tower one last look before focusing back on the angel. “World’s ending, darling. Or haven’t you noticed?”

“No,” Aziraphale rebuts in a harsh breath. “No, it’s far too early, Crowley -- “

“Think about it,” Crowley interrupts. “The horsemen are here, Aziraphale. War -- she’s been having herself a little frenzy in the Kingdom of France for years now, and from what I hear it’s not ending anytime soon.” 

Aziraphale opens his mouth to object, so Crowley presses on. 

“Famine had a little fun in 1317, and now he’s back. The people who aren’t dying of the Black Death are going hungry to pay off these ‘physicians’ to treat their families.” He gestures to the mask still clasped in Aziraphale’s hands. “And Pestilence and Death, well. That’s obvious. They’ve been running circles around us for decades now.” 

“But that doesn’t mean -- it’s not the _ end_. I rather think the end, the true end, would have a bit more organization, bit more… fanfare.” 

Crowley laughs, a bitter, biting thing. “What more fanfare do you need? Open your eyes, Aziraphale. This is it.” 

Aziraphale shakes his head and turns his back on Crowley. “No, I -- what about the child? The Antichrist? The end can’t happen without him, Crowley.” 

“He could be here. He probably _ is _ here. We’d never be able to detect him, he could have been here for years. Heaven, he could be behind all of this.” 

Aziraphale turns, frowning. “But surely you would have known… you’d have facilitated…?”

“I’m not the only demon, you know,” Crowley shrugs. “I’m sure they delegate tasks as critical as Satan’s child to some poor buggers above my pay grade.” 

Aziraphale only stares, mouth pressing together in a thin line. He’s carefully rigid, but his wings give him away as usual, twitching and quivering anxiously. 

“You can’t be sure, though,” Aziraphale says quietly after a moment. “Even if your lot don’t keep you informed, mine surely would have told me. They would have prepared me, if we were heading into a war.” 

“Would they?” Crowley asks irritably. His patience is waning fast; if he’s right, they don’t have time to argue. “You’re not exactly a soldier anymore. Be honest, when is the last time they’ve even checked in, hm?” 

Aziraphale’s lips part. His eyes flit around wildly as he tries to recall. “I -- well it must have been, er…” 

“1204, for me,” Crowley says. “They’ve forgotten us, Aziraphale.” 

“What do you suggest, then?” Aziraphale snaps. “Why did you come here?”

There’s a pregnant pause. He could still back out, he thinks. He could say anything but the terrible, embarrassing truth that he’s ignored for centuries, for a millennia, the only gospel he knows, the only fact in his existence he can measure himself by anymore. He could leave it all behind, the angel included. But Aziraphale’s face falls, his shoulders and wings sagging in defeat. He looks so afraid, and just like that, Crowley is lost. He caves. 

“We could get out of here,” Crowley says at length. He fights to keep resilience in his voice as Aziraphale reacts, emotions written on his sleeve and in the tremor of his wings. 

“What?” 

“We could leave,” he repeats. “Get away from all this. They don’t care about us, Aziraphale. They won’t even notice we’re gone.” 

“But -- the humans, you’re suggesting we _ abandon _ them?” 

“Sod the humans,” Crowley snarls. It’s the wrong thing to say; Aziraphale looks aghast. “What have they ever done for you?” 

“They’re Her creation,” Aziraphale retorts, troubled. “We were -- I was charged with their protection, I can’t just leave -- “ 

“They’re done for, Aziraphale, for once don’t be so blind -- “

“I’m not _ blind _, I’m only trying to -- “

“They’re _ done _. I’m telling you, their number is up. There’s nothing you can do.” 

Aziraphale paces. The physician mask tumbles out of his hands and out of sight, left to plummet down the hill and terrorize some poor farmer when it lands at their front stoop.

“I don’t believe that. I can -- I’ve done good here, Crowley. I can save more.” 

Crowley shakes his head. He makes a quick decision, and treads a few paces to catch Aziraphale mid step. He rests his hands on his shoulders, and forces him to meet his eyes. 

“It’s not enough. Aziraphale, I’m -- it’s over.” 

Aziraphale watches him for a long time. In the distance a bell tolls, twelve resonating gongs, signaling another day that they’re wasting, another day they could be at the other end of the universe, away from the grisly purgatory their Almighty’s world has become. 

“I can’t,” Aziraphale says softly. “I’m sorry, Crowley, I can’t abandon them.” 

He expected the answer. He doesn’t expect the sinking dread, or the way his fingers dig into Aziraphale’s skin; the way he wants to seize him and take him away from the dying earth by force. 

“No, I suppose you can’t,” is all he says. 

They watch each other for a long time. Crowley remains impassive, the way he’s trained himself to be around the angel.

“You should go, Crowley,” Aziraphale says quietly. “I -- you don’t need to fight their war.” 

“I shouldn’t fight _ you _, you mean,” Crowley corrects. He releases Aziraphale’s shoulders and grins. “I would win, you know.” 

“You wouldn’t.” Aziraphale returns his smile. It doesn’t reach his eyes. 

“No. I wouldn’t. Or rather I -- couldn’t.” 

Aziraphale’s smile fades. He looks at Crowley in that way that makes the air feel too heavy, the way it did when the earth was new, before the nitrogen and carbon dioxide dissipated enough to allow for his creator’s favorite beings to walk the earth. 

“Crowley… I -- “

“Right,” Crowley punctuates loudly. “Well, I’m off to Australia to wait it out. Come find me if you change your mind, yeah?” 

He shakes his wings and paces away, feeling Aziraphale hot on his heels. 

“Wait -- you’re staying? After all you said?” 

He pauses. Aziraphale hovers at his left shoulder. He looks at the crooked tower again, feeling something warm flood through him. 

“Looks that way, angel. See you around.” 

His wings expand and then he’s off, away from Aziraphale and his insufferable moral code. He doesn’t go to Australia, at least not straight away. He stops in Rome, and is delayed for a full week tracking down Petronius’ descendant. Aziraphale is puttering around in that dreadful mask when he returns, healing a young boy, expression serious and strained. The oysters are fresh when he drops them at Aziraphale’s hut; he stays long enough to see Aziraphale’s surprise, to see a soft smile spread across his face. He looks around for Crowley; he’s gone before Aziraphale can spot him watching from the edge of the trees. 

Third Alternative Rendezvous   
2019  
One Day To The End Of The World

* * *

“It’s a big universe.” 

Aziraphale looks at him as though someone’s died. Crowley doesn’t want to say it, but it happens anyway, beyond his control as is everything these days when it comes to the tartan clad angel in front of him. 

“Even if this all ends up in a puddle of burning goo, we could go off together!” 

Something changes in Aziraphale’s expression. For a brief moment Crowley can breathe. Hope wells in his chest before he can squash it, that maybe they can survive this. Maybe this time he’ll say yes, and get out of dodge before his idiotic morals get him killed. 

“Go off together?” 

His voice sounds unsure and scared, just as it did during the plague. But there’s an edge of hope to it that Crowley latches onto. 

And then: “Listen to yourself.” 

There it is, the cowardice winning out against all of his better instincts again. It’s the second time Aziraphale has turned him down, and it’s more than he can take today. 

“How long have we been friends?” he asks, almost angrily. “Six thousand years!” 

“Friends? We’re not friends!” Something ugly unfurls from deep in his marrow. “We are an angel, and a demon! We have nothing whatsoever in common, I don’t even like you!” 

“You do!” Crowley calls as Aziraphale walks away. He whirls back around angrily. 

“Even if I did know where the Antichrist was, I wouldn’t tell you, we’re on opposite sides!”

“We’re on _our_ _side_,” Crowley growls. He nearly throttles him, furious at how dense he can be, how deep in denial he can still be after all this time. 

“There is no ‘our side’, Crowley! Not anymore. It’s over.” 

He feels unnaturally dizzy, much like the time a rather intuitive priest tried to exorcise him before Aziraphale intervened, like his breath was being forcibly removed from his lungs. 

“Right,” is all he musters, waiting. Aziraphale doesn’t take it back. “Well, then…”

He turns. If he didn’t know better he’d say Aziraphale looks heartbroken, but he doesn’t try to stop Crowley from leaving. Crowley strides away, stopping only to call, “Have a nice doomsday,” over his shoulder. He doesn’t look back. 

_ You go too fast for me, Crowley. _

\- - -

He’s rarely been as frazzled as he is when he flags Aziraphale down outside his shop. He’s unhinged, desperation thick and choking in his throat, tires screeching to a halt. He nearly runs down a pedestrian, doesn’t bother to apologize as he clambers out of the Bentley.

“Angel! I’m sorry, I apologize, whatever I said, I didn’t mean it.”

People stare, as they often do when he address Aziraphale this way, but he doesn’t care. 

“Work with me, I’m apologizing here, yes? Good. Now get in the car.”

“What? No!”

“The forces of Hell have figured out it was my fault. But, we can run away together. Alpha Centauri! Lots of spare planets up there, nobody would even notice us!”

“You’re being ridiculous, Crowley.” 

A pause. Aziraphale struggles with himself for a long moment, long enough for Crowley to press on. 

“Look, Aziraphale, if my lot figured it out, yours aren’t far behind,” he says in a rush. He steps closer until Aziraphale is close enough to touch. “They’ll force you to fall, and you can’t -- you don’t belong down there. Not ever. We have to leave.” 

“Crowley -- “

“There isn’t _ time_, angel!” Crowley snaps. “Will you come with me? Yes or no?” 

Aziraphale looks at all the teeming human bodies clustered around them. He recognizes it in his face, the doubts and misgivings about leaving them behind, the guilt that’s kept Crowley awake for days on end now. Demon or no, he cares about the humans as much as Aziraphale, he loves this imperfect little planet he’s called home for thousands of years now, but there’s no future here, not for any of them.

Aziraphale clenches his jaw, and Crowley is sure he’s lost him. But unexpectedly, his expression hardens. He looks determined when he focuses back on Crowley. 

“Yes.”

\- - -

They leave at midnight. Aziraphale is waiting for him at the top of the Eiffel Tower as discussed, gazing down at the sleeping city. He still can’t quite believe they’re here. Aziraphale hadn’t offered an explanation as to why he changed his mind, and Crowley is too afraid to ask, scared he will change it again if pressed. 

“Long time since we’ve been to Paris,” Crowley says offhandedly. Aziraphale bows his head, keeping his back to Crowley. His wings are coiled tight behind him; it’s been centuries since he’s seen them, white and resplendent against the night sky. 

“I do miss the food,” Aziraphale comments. 

“What, you never popped over for a nibble after the revolution?”

“Well... maybe once or twice.”

Crowley smiles. “We could nip some from that bakery over there, if you like. Take it with us.”

He steps over to where Aziraphale is perched. He can see flecks of grey among the pure white of his feathers from up close. 

“We’re getting old, angel.”

Aziraphale looks at him. “What?”

“Your greys.”

Aziraphale peeks over his shoulder. “Ah, yes, those have been coming in for... quite some time. I don’t know the meaning of it.”

“But you have a theory?”

Aziraphale doesn’t answer. His eyes shift back to the skyline. 

“Well, it’s a long way to Alpha Centauri. Perhaps you can tell me on the journey.”

“No,” Aziraphale says firmly. “No, lets -- we should go.”

Aziraphale glances up, and his hands are shaking ever so slightly. 

“Don’t worry, angel,” Crowley says. Aziraphale looks over, eyebrows creased anxiously. “I made them, remember. I know my way around up there.” 

“Of course,” Aziraphale says breathlessly. “Well I -- I can’t wait to see them.” 

The sincerity in his voice makes Crowley’s neck warm. “Alright. Come on then.”

He holds out his hand. Aziraphale looks down at it blankly, eyes wide.

“We’ll need to stick together, angel. The atmosphere will spit us out over opposite poles if we’re not careful.” 

“You’ve done this before?”

Crowley shrugs. “Handful of times. Just to check in, visit some of the nebulas.”

Aziraphale swallows, and tentatively reaches out to clasp Crowley’s outstretched hand. It’s warm, yet a chill goes through him all the same. 

Aziraphale looks near to fainting, so Crowley tries to calm him, speaking as gently as he can manage. “It’ll be fine, right? We’ll just pop over, one tiny star system away, just for a quick millennia or two until all this dies down. And in a few thousand years, it should be safe to come back, I reckon.” 

“What if -- what if this is all gone, when we return?” 

“Well, then -- let’s hope the food up there is as good as down here.”

Aziraphale releases a shaky laugh, hand tightening in Crowley’s. 

“Right. Well... farewell, then,” Aziraphale says to the world. 

Crowley says his own silent goodbye, and pulls him a few paces to the left. They ascend, higher and higher, skin lighting up as they puncture the atmosphere, high enough to graze Heaven itself, and then as suddenly as they took off, they’re gone in a blink. 

Proxima Centauri b  
2020  
6 Months After The End Of The World

* * *

“It’s _ hot_.”

They’ve barely touched ground and Aziraphale is already complaining. Rather, he’s _ still _ complaining, as he whined about the freezing cold of space the entire six month journey.

“Thought you’d enjoy some warmth after all your whinging.” 

“Well not quite this much,” Aziraphale says. “You didn’t mention there were _ two _ suns, Crowley.”

“I think it feels lovely.”

“Yes well, you’re a serpent, of course you like it.”

“Oh enough bellyaching. Don’t you want to take a look at our new world?”

“_Our _ \-- ?” Aziraphale chokes out. He huffs. “Bit -- bit presumptuous that.”

“We’re the only ones here, as far as I can tell,” Crowley points out. As far as he _ knows, _he should say; he checked. He circles around Aziraphale. “I think we can safely claim ownership.”

“Still, though,” Aziraphale says uneasily. “It’s still the Almighty’s creation, even if it’s… barren.”

“‘S not barren, I see a river right over there,” Crowley says. 

He points off in the distance where a hint of water is gleaming. It’s the only point of interest on the entire planet. He makes a show of looking around, but it's not really necessary. He helped create this galaxy, sculpted this particular planet with his own hands; he knows all the nooks and crannies almost better than Earth's. All around is desolate, endless stretches of hills and plains and a suffocating amount of dust, it’s true. The Almighty had been very strict with Her instructions: no possibility for human life anywhere but Earth. His little stunt with the river had been one of the final straws to break the camel's back, so to speak, but he couldn’t help himself. He’d thought at the time this could be a beautiful place for Her creation, that She shouldn’t limit herself to Earth. Needless to say, She disagreed. 

And yet, She left the river. 

“Yes, but no there’s evidence of _ life_,” Aziraphale complains. "There's barely any color, or smell or _ sound _ \-- oh Crowley. What have we done?”

“We’ve survived,” Crowley insists, miffed. “We lived through the end, angel, escaped eternal suffering on one of our ends, likely yours.”

“But at what cost? We abandoned humanity, left them to die just for our superior’s little… forgive me,_ pissing match _ . We fled to an empty world, with nothing. Heaven, I’ve been so selfish, it’s -- _ unconscionable_, what I did, oh -- ”

“You’re really killing my buzz, do you know that?” Crowley snaps. “So pessimistic for an angel! I didn’t _ force _ you to come, you know. You could’ve stayed home, with the beasts and hellfire if the idea of eternity with me was so appalling.”

Aziraphale looks round, almost fully into one of his panic attacks by now, but he softens a bit. “Oh, Crowley you don’t -- you can’t think my objection is _ you_, can you?” 

Crowley removes his sunglasses and rubs his eyes, exhausted from nearly two hundred days of space travel. He could have done it in half the time if he didn’t have Aziraphale insisting they visit every passing red giant and supernova, “just for a quick moment, this time, I promise!”

“What else am I supposed to think?” he answers after a pause. “‘We’re not friends’, remember?” 

“Oh I didn’t -- Crowley, I didn’t mean that,” Aziraphale assures quietly. “I didn’t mean to… hurt your feelings.” 

“You didn’t,” Crowley spits back. “I just thought you’d rather discorporate than run away with me.” 

“No. I’m -- glad you’re here. More than you’ll ever know.” 

A familiar tightness returns, pulling sharply in his ribs. He cleans his glasses and puts them back on his face for something to do with his hands. They’re quiet for a time, surveying the sparse planet before them. 

“What do we do now?” Aziraphale asks gently. 

Crowley looks around at the endless, deserted planet. 

“I believe it’s miracle time, baby.” 

Aziraphale grins, tiny hint of a blush spreading across his cheeks. Crowley returns it, and makes a decision. With no other job or hellish assignment to guide him any longer, he determines that making Aziraphale blush as often as he can is his new purpose in life. 

Proxima Currently Unnamed Due To Irreconcilable Differences  
2034  
14 Years and 8 Months After The End Of The World

* * *

In the years since arriving on Proxima Currently Unnamed Due To Irreconcilable Differences, Crowley and Aziraphale had built a world all their own, using every ounce of demonic and angelic miracle making power that they had. Aziraphale had breathed life onto the planet, creating a lush botanical garden throughout the whole bloody place that strongly resembled the first Garden, though he claims he was not influenced by it and that it was “blasphemous to even suggest such a thing”. The garden helped nurture the animal life, creatures both from earth and of his own imagination roaming freely. Most of the creatures are wild, but Aziraphale can’t help himself from creating a few domesticated animals. One morning in the first spring, one of the cats Aziraphale created follows Crowley inside and stays, and that’s that. She’s all black, except for a pattern of white swirling on her back, oddly resembling wings. Aziraphale names her Evie, and she is almost never out of their sight. 

Aziraphale had stopped short of creating humans however, deaf to Crowley’s pleas for him to create “just a few”, just enough to make life on this rock more bearable. They’d lived among humans for so long, observing and influencing and befriending them, and without them, they both felt rather lost. Aziraphale was horrified at the mere suggestion, claiming again that it would be blasphemy, even after several millennia of not a whisper from God. Crowley doesn't mention his little tiff with God over the exact same predicament in the beginning, knowing it would solidify Aziraphale’s position.

Aziraphale's staunch refusal left Crowley with no choice but to use his influence to encourage a little chaos. He couldn’t have them throttling each other out of pure boredom. He doesn’t have much to work with, being that it’s only the two of them on an empty planet, but he does what he can. Crowley encourages the strange weather patterns, gives them problems to solve, creates a few not so innocent carnivores to stir up the food chain among the animal life. His proudest accomplishment, however, is training Evie to relentlessly demand Aziraphale’s attention when he cooks, just to watch him get horribly cross and use his “strict father” voice with her. 

Crowley has his own home for a time. He’d been very partial to his flat in London and had essentially recreated it, with a few minor upgrades. A bed and some toys for Evie, for one. He no longer kept houseplants of his own after Aziraphale witnessed his treatment of them and threw a fit, save for one fern that despite all his talk never seemed frightened of Crowley, and thrived despite him. Aziraphale cultivates several houseplants of his own but adamantly refuses to let Crowley anywhere near them. Crowley gets his fill with the plant life outside, and if he _ encourages _ them to live up to his expectations every now and again, it’s not like Aziraphale has to know.

Their homes are across the river from each other, separated by several miles of land. He does the math one day, and realizes they’re the exact same distance apart as Crowley’s flat and Aziraphale’s bookshop were on earth. Crowley finds himself at Aziraphale’s more often than not, unable to abide the solitude now that he and the angel are literally the only intelligent beings on the planet. Aziraphale miracles Crowley his own bedroom on the second floor after a year of him complaining about having to cross the river in the dead of night after drinking heavily, a habit they both heartily maintained. 

By some magic Crowley can’t comprehend, Aziraphale recreates nearly all his books. They’re not first editions in the sense that Aziraphale would like, but they are in that they’re the first to exist on this planet. That’s what Crowley tells him to get him to stop complaining about it, anyway. There’s an entire wing of the house dedicated to housing them, and it’s where Aziraphale spends an exorbitant amount of time, just as he had before. Creatures of habit and comfort, the both of them, and the atoms know it. The room slowly adjusts itself to look exactly like the bookshop, down to the backroom couch and armchair. Neither of them admit to influencing the room, or acknowledge it. They merely continue on as they always have.

Without Aziraphale, he’d have gone mad within the first year. He shudders when he thinks of what he’d have done if Aziraphale had refused to come with him, what he’d have done all alone here, but it’s a useless exercise. He’d never have come at all if Aziraphale had said no. 

\- - -

The seasons on their new planet are extreme. The two suns blaze in the summer, resulting in nearly unbearable heat for Aziraphale, and when they disappear, winters that are more brutal than the ninth circle of Hell for Crowley. Aziraphale is a being of light and warmth, but even he finds he struggles to keep warm during the winter months. Years of using their powers to create their new world, and millions of miles separating them from the source have left them both drained. Using miracles 'for frivolous reasons', as Aziraphale says, ceases to be a reasonable option. They can’t keep on top of the chill that continuously creeps into the house, nor the suffocating heat. Crowley curses himself constantly for the blasted two sun idea. 

Crowley nearly discorporates the first winter from the cold. Aziraphale finds him one morning, curled under roughly fifty blankets and shivering horribly. He climbs in without hesitation and pulls Crowley to him. It’s the best thing he’s ever felt. He can’t control himself; he clings to him, shaking and helpless, and Aziraphale stays for several hours until Crowley feels somewhat alive again. Aziraphale insists that they sleep in the same bed during the winter from that moment on, angrily refuting anything Crowley tries to say to get out of it. They don’t talk about it when Aziraphale crawls into Crowley’s bed in the summer months, pressing himself against Crowley’s cool skin until he can breathe again. 

It’s late autumn 2034 when Crowley nearly ruins everything. The mild weather is slowly bleeding into another harsh winter, bringing with it a storm like nothing they’ve experienced since arriving. 

“Crowley? Could you shut the windows? I don’t think this storm is letting up for the next month, at this rate.” 

Crowley glances up from his ornate marble chessboard, a gift from Aziraphale for their tenth anniversary of escaping the apocalypse. It’s been raining for a week straight, with heavy thunderstorms and hail, and for once it’s not because of Crowley’s meddling. 

“It’s rather too late to keep the rain out, I think,” Crowley comments as he moves his rook. He twitches his fingers and the windows shut instantly. He snaps them and the water that had soaked into the carpet evaporates. Aziraphale tuts at him from his desk.

“Really, my dear, you’re expending yourself again.”  
  
“It’s fine, Aziraphale, still got plenty of juice in the tank.”

“Yes, well, any time you want to let up, we’re all rather sick of the rain,” Aziraphale says irritably. Evie is curled on his lap sleeping, and he’s sipping cocoa and working on his book. 

“This isn’t me, angel,” Crowley tells him.

“Oh stop it, I won’t fall for that again.” 

“I mean it. I don’t think I could keep a storm like this going this long anymore.” 

A loud explosion of thunder makes Aziraphale jump, startling Evie awake. She hisses angrily and jumps off of Aziraphale’s lap to slink over to Crowley. He scoops her up and joins Aziraphale, plopping down on the couch opposite him. 

“Truly? This isn’t you?” 

“Swear on my -- well, on Evie’s life,” Crowley says earnestly, scratching her ears for emphasis. She wriggles out of Crowley’s grasp and prances away to the next room.

“Strange…” Aziraphale mutters. “Do you think… it couldn’t be God, could it?” 

Crowley rolls his eyes. “For Hell’s sake, you’ve got to stop looking over your shoulder for Her. She forgot about us a long time ago.” 

“She has a long memory, Crowley,” Aziraphale says ominously. It’s an age old argument that resurfaces every few months. Nothing Crowley has said or done convinces Aziraphale that they’re on their own, for better or worse. 

He changes the subject instead of repeating his opinion on the matter, nodding to the enormous book Aziraphale is hunched over. “As do you, apparently. No one will even be able to pick that up by the time you’re done with it.” 

“Well I want to be thorough,” Aziraphale tuts, pen scratching as he picks up where he left off. “Even if no one ever reads it, I want to tell our story somewhere.” 

“_Our _ story? I’m in your book?” 

“Of course you are,” Aziraphale replies, immediately and without even glancing up. “A -- quite a lot, in fact.” 

“Really?” Crowley drawls, intrigued. He stands, and hovers over Aziraphale’s shoulder. “What century are you on now?” 

“I’m er -- still stuck on Mesopotamia, actually.” 

“What, the flood?” Crowley asks incredulously. “You’ve already written nearly two thousand pages.” 

“Yes well… there’s a lot to document.” 

“Feel sorry for your publisher,” Crowley says. He shifts closer to peer at the page; Aziraphale twitches it out of sight. 

“No,” Aziraphale answers before he can ask. “You can’t read it, not yet.” 

“But you’ve just said you’re writing about me,” he needles. 

“Not… exclusively!” Aziraphale protests, avoiding his eyes and flushing. Crowley’s become rather good at his job. 

“Come on,” he urges, dragging out the vowels. “Just one page. One paragraph.” 

He leans closer into Aziraphale’s space and makes to reach for the book. Aziraphale snatches his wrist from the air; Crowley drops his arm, taking Aziraphale’s hand with it, and presses against his back to read over his shoulder. He makes out the words “surprising display of integrity and goodness” before Aziraphale manages to snap it shut with his other hand. 

“‘Integrity and goodness’?” Crowley recites. They’re very close; Crowley’s face is inches from Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale won’t meet his eyes, focused on the closed book in front of him, but his hand remains clasped tight around Crowley’s wrist all the same. “Who is that about?” 

“Crowley, don’t -- “

“Who is it? Is it me?” he teases. He can feel the warmth radiating from Aziraphale’s face. His own skin feels warmer than normal; he’s almost lightheaded. 

“I -- no,” Aziraphale stutters. “It’s about -- Noah.” 

Crowley shakes his head and chuckles lowly. “You’re a terrible liar, angel.” 

Aziraphale turns to meet his gaze. His eyes trace over his face, flickering down to his mouth for a moment when he realizes how close they are, and the light, teasing atmosphere changes. Crowley’s throat feels as though it’s closing up, breaths getting caught the longer they stare at each other, horrible sense of dread replacing the giddiness from a moment ago. Aziraphale leans infinitesimally closer, utters a soft sound that Crowley might recognize as his name were it not for the ringing in his ears, and then a deafening crack of thunder makes them jerk away from each other. 

“Shit,” Crowley hisses. 

“Yes,” Aziraphale agrees, clutching at his chest. 

They silently catch their breath. Aziraphale remains seated, and Crowley takes a step to the right, leaning heaving against the desk, careful not to touch him. He can practically hear Aziraphale’s brain overthinking, and feels the tension bleeding from his every pore. He tries several times to break the silence but he can’t seem to make his vocal cords work. 

_ You go too fast for me, Crowley. _

“I, er -- I’m think I’m going to check on my place,” Crowley says finally, surprising both of them.

He sees Aziraphale’s head snap towards him out of the corner of his eye. “Your place? But you haven’t been there in -- in, well…”

“Long enough that it probably needs some looking after,” Crowley finishes. He straightens, and Aziraphale follows suit and stands. “I’ll pop back tomorrow, maybe, or -- “ 

“Tomorrow?” Aziraphale looks wretched now, wringing his hands. “But I was making stew.” 

“Well save me some, I’m sure it’ll keep.” 

“It’s getting cold out.”

“I’ll be fine. I’ll conjure up a few extra blankets.” 

“Crowley, please -- "

“It’s alright, Aziraphale,” Crowley promises. He snags his sunglasses from the table and pats Evie, and is soaked through the moment he steps outside. 

“See you tomorrow,” he calls over the thundering rain. Aziraphale waves uncertainly. He hears Evie whine faintly, and turns on his heel before he can change his mind. 

Proxima Still Unnamed Due To Irreconcilable Differences  
2035  
15 Years and 2 Months After The End Of The World

* * *

Aziraphale lets it slide for six months. 

Crowley avoids him as best he can, only seeing him when the angel becomes irritatingly persistent about it. He shows up at Crowley’s house dozens of times, often cradling Evie in his arms to try and bribe him into coming back, but Crowley continues to make excuses for why he can’t. They’re increasingly weak arguments, but he stands firm. Aziraphale looks miserable every time he leaves; Crowley swallows his apologies and pushes him away anyway. 

One day he shows up, scowling like mad and looking as though he’s going to positively burst with righteous anger, the kind that’s reserved just for angels. Crowley sighs as he opens the door, privately a bit excited to see what’s tangled his feathers today. It truly is so boring without him around, not to mention hellishly cold. 

“Crowley, we need to talk,” Aziraphale announces as he storms inside. He’s so upset that he’s not bothering to hide his wings today, and they’re twitching like mad, expressing all the emotions he’s trying to tamp down. Crowley smiles despite himself. 

“Yes, angel, what is it?” 

“I -- I want you to move back. No, no… I _ insist _ that you move back,” he corrects. “I won’t take no for an answer, this is just ridiculous.” 

“Aziraphale -- “

“No! I don’t want to hear it!” Aziraphale interrupts. His voice quivers a little. “I -- I miss you. It’s terribly mundane without you, and -- and we’re all we have, you know.” 

Crowley is deathly still. _ I miss you_. 

“Aziraphale… it’s not a good idea.” 

“What do you mean?” Aziraphale asks. His wings droop, losing a bit of their spark. 

“Just trust me, alright?” Crowley says waspishly. He paces around the entryway and Aziraphale follows, stubborn to the end. 

“I do trust you,” Aziraphale says earnestly. “More than -- well, more than anything, Crowley.” 

“Then _ believe me _ when I say it’s not a good idea.” 

“I won’t, Crowley, just tell me -- oomf --“

There’s a thump as Crowley crowds him against the wall, frustration reaching its peak and spilling over hot and frothing. 

“Aziraphale. No,” he snarls, inches from Aziraphale’s face. Aziraphale isn’t fazed; he stares Crowley directly in the eyes, and his wings are steady. 

“You don’t frighten me, Crowley,” he says softly. 

Crowley growls and releases him. He pivots and walks away, making a beeline for the kitchen and the only thing he bothers to keep stocked in it. Aziraphale pursues him, an annoying shadow that won’t stop chattering away at him.

“Crowley, listen, if this is about -- about the incident, with my book --“ 

“Stop.” 

He yanks a bottle of Jack out of the cabinet, takes a long swig straight from the bottle. Aziraphale pulls the bottle from his hands; Crowley lets him, but his mouth curls in a snarl. 

“Angel, I’m warning you -- “

“I’m _ sorry_, Crowley,” Aziraphale insists. “I know that night, it -- it was a bit awkward, and it was out of line, and untoward, but -- “

“No, Aziraphale, stop,” Crowley begs. He can’t listen to another word of it, refuses to listen to Aziraphale confirm his worst fears in his own goddamn house. “You’re right, alright, it was -- all of those things, but I just -- I need some time.” 

Aziraphale’s face crumples, then smooths over in a second. Crowley can still read it all the errant flutter of wings. 

“Right.” Aziraphale clears his throat and takes a few steps back. “I’ll er… time, yes.” 

He hands the bottle of whiskey back and makes to leave. Crowley’s stomach squirms unpleasantly with guilt, but he remains resolute, fighting to keep his expression stoic. Aziraphale hesitates at the door.

“Come to dinner once in awhile, at least. For Evie’s sake.” 

His grip on the bottle tightens, hard enough to shatter if he weren’t reigning himself in. 

“Alright,” he agrees after a tense silence. 

“Good.” Aziraphale smiles, a little forced, and then he’s gone. 

Glass shatters, and whiskey drips from his hand, mingling with blood. He doesn’t feel any of it. 

Proxima Still Unnamed Due To Irreconcilable Differences  
2036  
16 Years and 0 Months After The End Of The World

* * *

“Are you sure you won’t stay?” 

Crowley finishes his drink and stands to gather his coat. It’s winter again, and he’s cold all the time. He misses Aziraphale’s angelic body heat desperately when he’s alone at night, and he can tell Aziraphale worries about him. His mouth is permanently set in an unhappy frown, eyes troubled. 

“No, I should -- I shouldn’t.” 

Aziraphale nods sadly. “It’s just, Evie misses you, you know.” 

“I’ll see her soon enough,” Crowley coos as he pets her goodbye. She nudges his hand when he tries to pull away and wraps herself around his leg. 

“You could take her for the night?” Aziraphale suggests. 

“Nah, my place is too cold. She’s better off here.” 

“So are you!” Aziraphale exclaims, right on cue, positively bursting with indignation. They haven’t gotten through a single one of these dinners without the same argument. His face is set and determined, flushed with frustration. “For Heaven’s -- will you just stay? You’ll freeze!” 

“Aziraphale -- “

“No, I don’t want to hear it,” Aziraphale interrupts. “You’ve had plenty of time, Crowley, and I’m sorry just… just stay. _ Please_.” 

He’s been so careful. He’d been so careful, for sixteen years, thirteen of them in the same house, for six fucking thousand before that. Thirteen years of waking wrapped up in temptation, and he _ is _ temptation, he is sin incarnate, and Aziraphale is his apple, this place is their Garden. And he’d been weak, he’d spooked him, tempted him to regret. _ You go too fast for me, Crowley _ . _ It was out of line, and untoward _. The reality of what he was risking terrified him. At least on earth when temptation had become too much, he had plenty of distractions, plenty of souls to corrupt to save the one he cared about most. Here, he has nothing. If Aziraphale realizes the weight of Crowley’s feelings for him, he'll be horrified, repulsed. And if he isn’t, if he feels the way Crowley doesn’t dare allow himself to hope for anymore, he’ll Fall, and resent Crowley for the rest of their existence on this rock. And then... then, Crowley will be well and truly alone. Forever. 

“I can’t, Aziraphale,” he says quietly. 

“Bullshit,” Aziraphale snaps. He weaves around the table and grabs Crowley by his neck. He gasps at the sudden warmth.

“Never heard you swear like that,” Crowley manages weakly. 

“Yes, well -- get used to it! I’ve had it with your stubbornness. I don’t know what else I can say, but I’m sorry, Crowley, alright? Please forgive me… and stay.” 

He sways a bit in Aziraphale’s grip, drunk from the proximity, dizzy from the feel of his touch after so long. 

“Aziraphale --”

“_Don’t_. Not another word, not unless you really, _ truly _ mean it. If you really wish to -- part ways, I’ll let you go.”

Crowley says nothing. He should say it, he should push him away, should take off into the frozen night. He should, he _ should, he can’t_. 

Aziraphale’s anger softens. “But if that’s... _ not _ the case, then you’re staying. No more excuses, Crowley, I won’t hear of it.” 

His thumbs are rubbing gently along Crowley’s jaw, and his head swims, he can’t bloody _ think _. He thinks of his empty house, his cold bed, of the sleepless nights left alone with his own thoughts. It’s an unpleasant thing, a demon alone with his own -- well. And Aziraphale is pleading, he’s holding him and begging him to stay, and he can’t refuse him any longer. He’s weak, after all. Always has been when it comes to Aziraphale. He supposes that’s why he fell in the first place.

He releases a breath. "Give me a minute to pack my things, angel.” 

Tears spring to his eyes, and Aziraphale’s smile is brighter than both of their suns.

London, Earth  
2149  
130 Years and 10 Months After The End Of The World

* * *

“Fuck _ me_.”

Nothing’s changed. 

The cars are different. Some of the buildings are different. The air is different, even. A bit cleaner. The phones are different, tiny and more efficient, but every passerby still has their eyes glued to them, just as they did a hundred and thirty years ago. None of them notice Crowley as he stands in the middle of the tube, dressed in all black, gaping at his surroundings. 

He expected ash. He expected volcanoes and unbreathable air and deep oceans like when the earth was born. He also expected the possibility of nothing, to fly straight through where the earth used to be and bump into Venus. He was not prepared for this, for an earth that despite some advancements and improvements, was hardly changed in it’s essentials. An earth that was a little better than they left it. A world where Adam Young served as Prime Minister, and won a Nobel Peace Prize, and didn’t end it at all, not even a little bit. 

“Fucking… _ bleeding _ Hell,” he mutters to himself, finally earning a rude stare from a stranger. 

Aziraphale is going to kill him. 

Planet Evie   
2150  
131 Years and 3 Months After The World Apparently Did Not End

* * *

He’s greeted by Aziraphale gathering him into a tight hug, wings excitedly encircling him just as fiercely as his arms. 

“Oh, I’m so happy you’re back,” Aziraphale says into his neck. He’s glowing when he pulls away and looks Crowley over. “Journey okay?” 

“Yeah, easy. Quick, without any overly curious angels insisting on three hundred pitstops.” 

“Oh, hush,” Aziraphale waves him off. He leads Crowley back into their house, which has an entirely new decorative design; poor bugger must have been bored. Evie springs into his arms, still spry at a hundred and thirty years old, thanks to their combined efforts (Aziraphale never dares to fuss about using their limited power for her sake). He holds her and lets her lick his face as Aziraphale pours them both a cup of tea. It’s autumn, and the garden is all brilliant shades of red and orange. 

“Alright, tell me,” he presses the mug into Crowley’s hands. “How -- how was it?” 

Crowley sits, Aziraphale following and pressing their legs together on the couch. He takes a sip, and gets a proper look at Aziraphale. 

“Your hair is longer.” 

“Yes, I know, I -- well it’s hard to trim the back myself,” he admits, touching it self consciously. 

“I like it,” Crowley tells him. Aziraphale flushes. The corner of his mouth curls up; he’s missed seeing that blush. 

“Thank you,” he mumbles. “Enough about me, though -- how was earth? Was it, you know…” 

“No, no it’s still there,” he says, stalling. “It’s, well… Aziraphale, it’s -- “

“It’s destroyed, isn’t it?” 

He can foresee what’s going to happen just as well as Agnes had. He’ll be ecstatic if Crowley tells him the truth, then furious, then ecstatic again. He’ll begin packing straightaway, and they’ll be diving back to their doom within the hour. 

And it’s not as though he hasn’t been selfish every single day for the last six thousand years, so he feels almost no guilt when he gives his answer. Almost. 

“Yes. It is. I’m sorry, Aziraphale.” 

Aziraphale’s shoulders slump, and the tiny twinge of guilt that remains eats him at him. 

“Well. It’s not as if we _ really _ thought… you know.” He scratches idly behind Evie’s ears. “I suppose you’re right. Another thousand years, and maybe…” 

He trails off sadly. It takes everything he has to keep his mouth shut, and he despises himself as much as he did the day he fell. Aziraphale wouldn’t understand Crowley’s fears about returning, or care, if he knew they could return to their precious earth. 

“Yeah. What’s another millennia?” 

Aziraphale smiles softly, and clinks their mugs together. 

“To the world.” 

Planet Evie  
2150  
131 Years and 7 Months After The World Apparently Did Not End

* * *

As it turns out, Crowley’s lie was pointless. It takes no time at all for his fears to catch up with them. 

He hears shuffling outside of his bedroom in the middle of the night. Aziraphale had fallen asleep in the library after a long night of writing, and he hadn’t had the heart to wake him. He drags himself up, thinking perhaps Aziraphale had woken up and was stumbling to bed, or that Evie had gotten bored by herself in the sitting room. He rubs at his eyes and staggers into the hallway. 

“Evie?” 

Nothing. She’s nowhere in sight. “Aziraphale?”

More silence. Then, he hears a loud banging sound and an unmistakeable grunt of pain downstairs. His heart sinks; he takes the stairs two at a time as the sounds of struggle grow louder. 

“Aziraphale!” he calls loudly, panic outstripping reason. He reaches the bottom, and before he can make sense of anything, a pair of strong arms pin his behind him and drag him into the sitting room. He’s forced to his knees, and his skin burns when what he can only assume are consecrated chains are wrapped tightly around his wrists and ankles. He cries out and grits his teeth, and then his voice leaves him in a sharp gasp when he sees the angel. 

Aziraphale is bound and unconscious in the center of the room. He’s bleeding near his eyebrow, tied up with demon manacles that cut into his skin. He sees red, quite literally, and delivers a litany of furious obscenities at his unseen captor as he tries to yank his arms free. 

“Let him go, you spineless, shit eating worm! I’ll have your head, I’ll skin you alive, I swear it -- “

“Now now, that’s not a very polite way to speak to an old friend, is it?” a familiar voice taunts. A shiver goes through him when he recognizes it. 

“Hastur.”

The demon steps around to face him, leaving Crowley kneeling and useless on the ground. He hasn’t changed, save for becoming even more hideous. He should have recognized him straightaway from his vile stench. 

“Surprised you remember my name. Been quite a long time, you know.” He grins wickedly. Crowley struggles uselessly against his chains, blood pumping hot with desire to rip him apart. 

“Let him go, Hastur,” he repeats icily. “Or I swear, you’ll be begging to be back in the ninth circle after I’m done with you.” 

“Ah, still got a little fire in you then? Thought the husband had made you soft after all this time.” 

Hastur steps over to Aziraphale and leans close to inspect him. 

“Get away from him,” Crowley snarls. 

“Oh honestly, do unclench. Heaven wants him unharmed. This little bump should be healed by the time we get back.” Hastur flicks Aziraphale’s head; he doesn’t stir. 

“What are you talking about?” Crowley growls. 

Hastur laughs. “Boy, your little honeymoon made you useless _ and _ stupid, didn’t it?” Crowley doesn’t rise to it, just grits his teeth when Hastur smirks. “I think you both should hear this.” 

He snaps his fingers and Aziraphale’s eyes flutter. He looks around groggily, crying out when he sees Crowley. 

“Crowley! Are you alright? What’s happening?” he says, eyes wide and terrified. His mouth falls open in a horrified gasp when he sees Hastur towering over them. 

“Good morning, angel,” Hastur drawls. An involuntary growl erupts from Crowley’s throat. “Sorry to wake you like this. Your little boyfriend here was just selling you out, thought you ought to know.” 

“No! No, Aziraphale, he’s lying,” Crowley says in a rush. “Don’t listen to him, I had nothing to do -- “

“Oh Hell, you really have gone soft, haven’t you?” Hastur interrupts. “Gag.” 

“What’s going on here?” Aziraphale demands. His eyes are steely now, burrowing into the back of Hastur’s head. Crowley hasn’t seen him this angry since the day Father David had tried to exorcise him. 

“Well, I’m about to become a very rich demon... in a manner of speaking,” Hastur says. “There’s an enormous bounty on both of your heads for jumping ship back in the day. Titles, dibs on the best temptations and tortures. Even a commendation from Satan himself.” 

“Do you really think Hell will make good on any of their promises?” Crowley snaps. “You’re just as stupid as I left you, if you believe that.” 

“No, you’re probably right. They won’t pay, at least not full price,” Hastur agrees thoughtfully. He nods over to Aziraphale. “But I have a backup plan. See, his lot will _ surely _ make it worth my while.” 

His blood runs cold, ice dousing the fire raging inside him. Aziraphale is staring at nothing, mouth open in horror. His eyes lock with Crowley’s after a moment, and he sees what Aziraphale is going to do before he does it. 

“Aziraphale, _ don’t _ \-- “

“Just take me,” Aziraphale says, voice clear and resolute. 

“Aziraphale! You blubbering idiot, don’t you _ dare _ \-- “

“Heaven wants me more than they want him,” Aziraphale continues, while Hastur watches the exchange amusedly. “He’s already a demon, there’s no punishment Heaven could pass down worse than sending him back to Hell.” 

“You’d be surprised,” Hastur muses. He doesn’t decline the suggestion, however. Crowley lets loose a frustrated scream. 

“Aziraphale, if you don’t _ shut up_, I -- “

“You’ll what?” Aziraphale retorts crossly. Like they’re arguing about who’s turn it is to clean the litter box. “You’re just as trapped as I am, my dear.” 

Crowley makes some sort of sound, one that could almost be considered a whimper. Aziraphale’s lip trembles but his face remains resolute. 

“Leave him. Take me back. Michael will give you whatever you want, I swear it.” 

“I do like the idea of abandoning him on this ugly rock,” Hastur ponders, nodding to Crowley. Crowley imagines peeling the skin from his bones. 

Aziraphale looks at Crowley, desperation etched in his face. Then his brow smooths over for just a moment, just long enough for Crowley to see when an idea occurs to him. Hastur doesn’t seem to notice, too busy gloating. 

“What does Hell want with him anyway?” Aziraphale asks, after a moment’s consideration. “He’s nothing to them anymore, just a traitorous little snake.” 

His eyes flick back to Crowley’s for the briefest moment, and he understands. He hasn’t done it in over two thousand years, but. Desperate times. 

Aziraphale keeps talking, keeps Hastur occupied. 

“-- know how angels punish treason? It’s the highest crime, they’d give you anything to deliver me to them -- ”

Crowley rolls his shoulders, closes his eyes. He focuses on anatomizing his human frame, reducing himself to his primal form. Hastur focuses on the angel, blind and deaf to the serpent escaping its coils and slithering towards him. 

He waits until he’s right behind him, lets Aziraphale lull him deeper into the ruse, and then in a heartbeat he’s human again. Hastur senses him then, but it’s too late; Crowley seizes his shoulders and slams Hastur’s head against the nearest wall. He slumps to the floor in a heap, knocked out cold. 

Crowley rushes to Aziraphale and unlocks the heavy manacle, tossing it far across the room. Aziraphale lets out a sharp breath when he’s free of the scorching metal. Crowley helps him stand, and then his hands are in his hair, fingers searching for his injury. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale gasps, wincing when Crowley finds the cut. 

“Are you alright?” Crowley asks tightly. His hand comes away bloody. He grapples with his wrath, a hair’s breadth away from burning the house down in an uncontrollable rage. He focuses as much of himself as he can on wiping the blood from Aziraphale’s face, breaths coming fast and harsh. 

“Yes, I’m fine -- oh Crowley, your wrists,” Aziraphale cries softly. He takes Crowley’s hands from his face and rubs his fingers gently over the skin. It soothes instantly, fading back to its normal color. 

“Heal yourself, now,” Crowley insists. He turns their hands over so that he’s cradling Aziraphale’s wounded skin in his own. He can prevent harm, can repair material objects, can even heal the occasional animal or human if he’s feeling charitable. But he can’t heal angels, even in their human form, even when he’s at full strength. 

“In a minute. We should get him sorted, before he wakes up.” He pulls his wrists from Crowley’s grip and gathers up the consecrated chains. “Hold him, I’ll handle the chains.” 

Crowley huffs impatiently but heaves Hastur up onto the chair Aziraphale was tied to. Aziraphale makes quick work of securing the chains, and once he’s secure Crowley immediately makes a move towards him. Aziraphale steps between them and catches his outstretched hand.

“Crowley, no, we need answers,” Aziraphale says, holding fast to Crowley’s hand. “We need to know how he found us.” 

“I know how,” Crowley snarls, eyes blazing at Hastur over his shoulder. “He must have followed me from earth, the conniving, ass kissing little bastard.” 

“But -- I thought you said earth was empty?” Aziraphale asks hesitantly. 

Crowley stops straining towards Hastur. He feels himself deflate, confronted with Aziraphale’s piercing stare. 

“I -- lied, angel,” Crowley admits. Aziraphale’s face falls. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have, but it’s not like it’s the first time, you know, and it was for a good reason -- “ 

“And what reason would that be?” Aziraphale asks angrily. 

“To protect you!” Crowley cries. “From this! I knew they’d be looking for us! The apocalypse didn’t happen, Aziraphale, the boy just -- sent everyone home. He was Prime Minister, for God’s sake, and we would have been in danger the moment we returned.” 

Aziraphale is quiet, eyes tracking over Crowley’s face. For once, Crowley can’t tell what he’s thinking. 

“You should have told me,” Aziraphale says after a long silence. “I am an angel, you know, I can take care of myself. I can make my _ own _ bloody decisions.”

“I -- yes, maybe so,” Crowley grits out. “But you -- you wanted to go home so desperately, I didn’t want to -- I didn’t -- “

A fond, irritatingly knowing smile spreads slowly across Aziraphale’s face. “You didn’t want to what?” 

He sighs, unable to take his thick-headedness for one more second, but he refuses to have this conversation with Hastur stinking up their living room.

“I’ll tell you once we dispose of this vermin,” Crowley says, edge to his voice. “Where’s the holy water?” 

Aziraphale nods and heads into the kitchen without another word. He reaches to one of the top shelves and pulls down the worn thermos delicately. 

“The kitchen? The _ kitchen_?” Crowley says incredulously. “You’ve been storing that in our goddamn _kitchen_ for the last hundred and thirty years?” 

“It’s not as if you ever go in there!” Aziraphale rejoins. “You haven’t touched a single pot since the moment we got here!” 

“Oh for Hell’s -- give me that.” 

“No!” Aziraphale cradles the thermos close to his chest. “No, you’re going to step outside. I don’t want to risk any of this splashing on you.” 

“I want to see him disintegrate, Aziraphale,” Crowley says darkly. “I’m doing it.” 

“Absolutely not. Out.” 

“_No_.” 

They glare at each other for a moment. Aziraphale rolls his eyes. 

“Oh, fine,” he acquiesces. “You can stay, but you’re to stay in the kitchen, understood?” 

“Fine. Wake him up first.” Crowley prowls into the kitchen, hovering as close as he can.

Aziraphale mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “dramatics”. He waves a hand before Hastur’s eyes, and he’s awake immediately. 

“You -- get me out of this chair, now,” he snarls, struggling against the bonds. 

“No, no I don’t think we will. We just woke you to see if you had any last words, my dear Hastur,” Crowley says cruelly. 

“Fuck you,” Hastur snaps. Aziraphale tsks. 

“That wasn’t very kind,” he says mildly. He unscrews the thermos; Hastur’s eyes go wide. 

“You can’t,” he says quietly, thrashing in his chains now. “You think I’m the only one after you? There will be more! All of Heaven and Hell will be looking for you!” 

Crowley laughs bitterly. “You might be right. But if you had told any of them where we were, they’d be at our doorstep. You wanted the bounty all to yourself, so your secret dies with you.” 

Hastur glowers, but he can see the terror in his eyes and knows that he’s right. No one else is coming for them. 

“Aziraphale. If you would.” 

Aziraphale swallows and nods, steels himself. “Right. Er. Yes.” 

He hesitates, hands wringing around the thermos. 

“Angel, come on. How many demons did you smite in the First War? This is no different.” 

“That was -- _ thousands _ of years ago, Crowley,” Aziraphale argues. 

“Angel, he had us tied up. He was going to deliver us to Michael,” Crowley says lowly. Aziraphale clenches his jaw and his eyes turn steely, yet still he hesitates. Hastur’s fear turns smug, and he starts laughing the longer Aziraphale falters. 

“He can’t do it. Are you even really an angel, then? Can’t even smite one demon?” 

“Oh just give it to me,” Crowley snaps impatiently. 

“No! You stay where you are,” Aziraphale commands. 

Shakily he pulls the cap off and steps forward. Hastur cowers again, but there’s a glint in his eyes that Crowley catches a second too late. Aziraphale lifts the bottle, and just as he’s about to pour he’s suddenly sent flying across the room. The bottle upends and he crashes into the wall with a sickening crack. A window shatters, and glass rains down on him as Crowley yells his name. Hastur is laughing, a mad, maniacal sound. 

“Still got a little juice up here,” he gasps, cackling harder when he sees Crowley’s face. 

Crowley stalks to Hastur and the spilt holy water. He’s blazing, fire burning in his every cell, hotter than he’s felt since the pit, since the fall. He aches to hurt, to splinter bone and tear flesh. He hasn’t felt this demonic in an eon, not since The Garden, not since Aziraphale. 

“You’re lucky,” he spits as he gets closer to Hastur. “You know that? You’re lucky that I’d rather see you melt away into nothing than to look at your face for one more second.”

With a flick of his wrist, the holy water evaporates, and coalesces in the air just above Hastur’s head. He lets his hand drop, and it plunges over him. There’s a terrible scream, and a sizzling sound, and within moments he’s gone, reduced to a pile of filthy clothing on the floor. 

“Angel,” Crowley calls the moment it’s done, scrambling over to kneel by his slumped form. “Aziraphale!” 

He cups his face, pats his cheeks. Aziraphale stirs under Crowley’s hands. His eyes flicker open and he groans. 

“Crowley? Where’s -- Hastur?” he mumbles. 

“Gone. Are you hurt?” Crowley gasps. 

“No, I mean -- a bit achy, but I’m alright, I think -- “

“Good.” 

Crowley kisses him. Aziraphale inhales, body rigid with shock, but after a moment he relaxes and kisses him back fiercely. His mouth opens under Crowley’s, and he makes a soft noise that Crowley memorizes. He pulls back for a moment; Aziraphale’s hands cup his face so gently when he kisses him again, lips soft and pliant against his. He’s overwhelmed by the simplicity of it. All the times he imagined it, he didn’t even come close to reality. It’s both too much and not enough after six thousand years of waiting, six thousand years of endless hunger. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathes when they part. His eyes are still closed. When they open, he looks at Crowley like he’s the only thing in the world. “That was… nice.” 

“‘Nice’,” Crowley repeats dully. “‘Nice’, is all you have to say, after six thousand years of me waiting to do that?” he complains. 

“Six thousand--?” Aziraphale gapes. “Oh, my dear, you -- you’ve really -- ?”

“Yes, you dimwit,” Crowley says. “Took you goddamn long enough to catch on. Only you didn’t, did you? I had to go and bloody kiss you first anyway.” 

“You could have -- I mean, I wouldn’t have objected to it for… well, for far too long, now.” 

Crowley rolls his eyes but doesn’t answer, mouth otherwise occupied when Aziraphale pulls him back in. 

\- - -

“You don’t think anyone else is coming, do you?” 

It’s much later; Aziraphale is curled around Crowley in the late evening, when the two suns create the most brilliant sunsets that neither of them have ever quite gotten used too. The light shining in through the window turns Aziraphale’s hair to a soft orange, perfectly complimenting the red hue of Crowley’s. 

“No, I don’t, angel. Hastur wouldn’t have had anything to gain from sharing his glory.” 

“But -- what if my lot saw you too? What if Gabriel, or Uriel,” he shivers. “What if they turn up?” 

“Well. I suppose we’ll just have to…” 

He mimes slitting his throat, earning a swat from Aziraphale. 

“We can’t, Crowley. For one, we don’t have the proper weapons to kill an angel.” 

“You’ve got me.” 

Aziraphale smiles softly. “Yes, but you’re rather… out of practice, darling.” 

Crowley tuts, feigning offense. Aziraphale kisses his hand and continues, “All I mean is that there’s one of you, and thousands of them, and they’re powerful. They’re soldiers. True soldiers, unlike me.” 

“Hey, now, don’t talk about yourself like that.”

“It’s true. You’ve said so yourself.” 

“Yes well. I’m allowed to talk about you however I like.” 

He follows it up with a quick peck to Aziraphale’s lips, smiling into it. 

They lie together for a long time, quietly, hands moving restlessly over the other’s skin. Crowley touches him greedily, in all the ways he’s longed to for what feels like eternity, combing through his hair and tracing the lines in his face, his mouth. His fingers caress the grey-white feathers of his wings, tangled with his black. 

“You never told me what you think this means,” Crowley says. 

“Oh… it’s silly, it’s likely just… old age,” Aziraphale evades. 

“Tell me.” 

He sighs. “Alright but… don’t make fun, promise?” 

“Cross my heart and hope to die,” Crowley promises. Aziraphale shakes his head fondly. 

“Well I thought -- perhaps it was because I was becoming more… human. Or more… something, I don’t know. Less angelic. I’d never heard of another angel’s wings changing like this, it’s really just a guess.” 

“Hmm,” Crowley hums. “What does that mean for me, then?” 

“Well… that’s why I formed this theory, you see,” Aziraphale continues. He fixes Crowley with that proud look he hates, even now. “Yours started to grey as well, around the time you saved me from the guillotine. I don’t think you even noticed.” 

He blinks, glances down at his own wings. Sure enough, there are flecks of grey intermixed with the black. “Huh. No, I didn’t.”

Aziraphale smiles, and cups Crowley’s cheek in his hand. “If I’m right, you know what that means.” 

“Don’t.”

“You’re _ good_, Crowley. And _ kind_. And -- ”

Crowley flips them around and pins Aziraphale beneath him. “Stop it. That’s enough of your theories, I think.”

He cuts Aziraphale off by pressing his lips to his, and after awhile they forget the conversation entirely. 

\- - -

“I think… I think we should go home,” Aziraphale announces a week later. They’re on the couch, hunched over Aziraphale’s book, Crowley providing occasional advice, or a retelling of an event from his point of view. 

Crowley freezes, peering up at him. “Why on earth would we do that?” 

“If Hastur was right, and they are looking for us… well, wouldn’t it be better if we found them first? Caught them off guard? Maybe we could work something out, if we turn ourselves in.” 

“You are giving them way too much credit, love,” Crowley says exasperatedly. “I don’t think we can talk ourselves out of this one.” 

“Well we can’t fight our way out either, which is what it will come to if they find us here. And they will, one way or another. Plus, I miss it… home. I know you do too. You’re bored here.”

“I’m never bored with you.”

Aziraphale blushes. “You _ do _, Crowley. I know you. And… we can’t hide forever.” 

Crowley sighs. He saves their place and shuts the book, then buries his head in Aziraphale’s neck. “Can’t we hide for a just a bit longer? You kept me waiting a long time, you know.”

“Oh, bullocks,” Aziraphale says, laughing softly and placing a gentle kiss to his forehead. His eyes close, breathing in the sweet unique scent of Aziraphale’s skin. “You could have said something years ago.” 

“So could you,” he mumbles. 

They fall quiet for a long time. Evie wanders in after a spell and pounces on the couch next to Crowley, curling up at the edge and purring quietly. 

“Alright,” Crowley whispers into his skin. 

“Hmm?” Aziraphale mumbles drowsily.

“Let’s go home.” 

London, Earth  
2151  
132 Years and 3 Months After The World Very Decidedly Did Not End

* * *

They return home. Aziraphale is pleasantly surprised to find London the way Crowley described, very much the same as they left it despite the many years of human and technological evolution. He miracles his bookshop back into being, and the Bentley is still stored safely where Crowley left it. It was a chore transporting Evie with them on the journey home, but she thrives on earth, settling in happily the moment her paws touch the ground. They move into the flat above Aziraphale’s shop, and after a few weeks it’s as if they never left. 

It’s six months before Aziraphale works up the courage to contact his superiors. 

“Oh, they’re just going to be insufferable,” he whines as he draws the symbols. “Gabriel especially, Heaven I hope he doesn’t show.” 

“Don’t hold your breath,” Crowley says. He idly corrects one of Aziraphale’s sigils. “From what I remember of that pomped up twat, he sticks his big nose anywhere he smells trouble.” 

“Well, perhaps I can appeal to his ego,” Aziraphale muses. 

Crowley lights the candles for him with a snap of his fingers. Aziraphale straightens, and tilts his head curiously. 

“Crowley… have you noticed a change in your abilities?”

“Meaning what?”

“Well they appear to be back to normal.”  
  
Crowley considers for a moment. “Now that you mention it… yeah, I suppose they are. I hadn’t even noticed.” 

“Nor I,” Aziraphale agrees. He flexes his hand, and the orchid in the corner perks up. They share a look. 

“I guess, being closer to home office…?” Crowley suggests.

Aziraphale sighs. “Well, whatever it is, this will likely be the last of it,” he says morosely. 

Aziraphale turns back to the sigils and takes a deep breath, bracing himself before closing his eyes clasping his hands together in prayer. He opens his mouth, then snaps it shut abruptly. He turns to Crowley and takes his hands in his. 

“Oh, er… just in case this goes bad rather quickly,” he says nervously, not meeting Crowley’s gaze. “I-I love you, you know.” 

“Oh stop, it’s not going to go bad. I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve,” Crowley retorts. He kisses Aziraphale, thumbing over his cheeks, feeling a swelling sense of pride when Aziraphale calms under his hands. “That being said…” His eyes track over Aziraphale’s warm, familiar face. “I love you, angel.” 

Aziraphale grins, kissing him again before he turns back to the circle. He presses his palms together again and starts to pray. 

“Er, hello. It’s Aziraphale, angel of the Eastern Gate, and er… Crowley, demon of the…”

He trails off, squinting at Crowley questioningly. 

“Of the er… Serpent Order,” he makes up. Aziraphale nods and seems to accept it. 

“Of the Serpent Order,” he repeats importantly. Crowley snorts softly to himself. “We um… we’d like to discuss our return with -- with whoever is available. So. If you wouldn’t mind setting something up, perhaps for next week, or -- “ 

The face of a withered old man appears, voice booming in the empty bookshop. 

“Hello, Aziraphale.” 

“Oh, h-hello, Metatron. Good -- good to see you again.” 

“Yes,” Metatron intones. “Gabriel is on his way to meet with you. Please expect him in five to ten seconds.” 

“Five to ten -- oh, um, right. Thank you.” 

Metatron disappears. Crowley and Aziraphale barely have a chance to share a worried glance before there’s a knock at the front door. Aziraphale pales and stumbles to the door, Crowley right behind him. 

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel greets blankly, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. His eyes flick over to Crowley with disdain. “Demon.” 

“Hullo, Gabriel,” Crowley drones sarcastically. It’s lost on him. 

Aziraphale shuts the door and then the three of them stand in an odd circle and stare at each other for a few moments. It’s awkward. 

“So,” Gabriel begins without preamble. “You’re back.” 

“Ah… yes,” Aziraphale replies. “Yes, and I can’t begin to say how sorry I am for er… leaving, without proper notice -- “ 

“You abandoned us.” Aziraphale winces. “Because of you, the end never happened. The Great Plan was dissolved. Do you know how embarrassing that was?” 

Aziraphale squirms, the guilt he’d never entirely overcome clearly getting the better of him. 

“Now hold on, I thought the kid stopped it,” Crowley interrupts. “Decided he didn’t want to end the world, all that. Doesn’t seem fair to put the blame all on Aziraphale and me.” 

“Yes, Adam Young did stop it. He didn’t have the proper influence he needed to facilitate the war however, so yes, I think I _ will _ continue to blame you two incompetent morons.” 

Aziraphale steps closer as Crowley opens his mouth to rebut, holding a hand out to stop him. “Now, Gabriel, we can explain, we merely thought -- “

“Lucky for you,” Gabriel continues loudly over Aziraphale. “It’s out of my hands. The Almighty has passed down orders to leave you two be.” 

“She -- I’m sorry?” Aziraphale asks weakly, looking rather faint. 

“The moment you two turned up on earth, She ordered us to leave you alone. Hell too, as far as I understand it.” 

“But -- why?” Aziraphale questions. “I thought She’d be furious, I thought -- “ 

Gabriel shrugs. “I have no idea, Aziraphale. As far as I'm concerned, you're a traitor, but it's over my head. I’m just here to pass on the message, and then I never have to see you again. So, consider the message delivered.” He straightens his tie and adjusts his coat, and his eyes are steely when he looks them over. “Have a nice life. Goodbye.”

Without another word he turns on his heel and exits the shop as fast as he can. Aziraphale and Crowley are left goggling at the door. 

“Er…”

“Yeah.” 

Their eyes meet. Aziraphale lets out a nervous giggle, and then they’re both laughing, doubled over in hysterics and clutching at each other. 

“Oh bugger, how in the Hell did we pull that off?” Crowley breathes, trying to pull himself together. 

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale gasps, still giggling. “Oh, I don’t think we’ll ever know. Perhaps it’s our reward for inadvertently saving humanity?” 

“Could be,” Crowley says. “Perhaps that was the Almighty’s Ineffable Plan all along?” 

“Or --“ Aziraphale breaks into another fit. Crowley has to hold him upright, he’s laughing so hard. “Or… perhaps we were the Ineffable Plan all along.”

He’s grinning, wide and teasing and bright. 

“You’re ridiculous,” Crowley mutters, kissing the stupid smirk off his face. The fading light of evening fills the bookshop with a warm haze as they calm down, trading slow kisses and laughter, making up for six thousand years of lost time. 

**Author's Note:**

> this was posted back in june after good omens aired, and then deleted a few months later when I decided I was super unhappy with it (alcohol may or may not have been involved in this decision hfsdhks). I really didn't expect as many people to be affected by me deleting this as there were, i thought i could delete without anyone even noticing. so to those that reached out and told me how much this story meant to you, thank you, it really means a lot <3 there were more edits I wanted to make before reposting, and I didn't do as many as I planned but I made enough to where i'm a bit happier with it. hopefully you are too, and if this is your first time reading this, hope you enjoyed it. love you all to bits 
> 
> [tumblr xo](https://hyruling.tumblr.com/)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] alpha centauri](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22954708) by [Literarion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Literarion/pseuds/Literarion)


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